


Darkmoon Waning

by Lewdsmokesoldier



Series: Gifts and Requests [7]
Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls I, Dark Souls II, Dark Souls III
Genre: Cock Rings, Degradation, Dirty Talk, F/M, Free Use, Gender or Sex Swap, Illusions, Lore-heavy, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Other, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:40:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25157134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lewdsmokesoldier/pseuds/Lewdsmokesoldier
Summary: Dark Sun Gwyndolin lives a lonely life. The last god of Anor Londo divides their time between projecting illusions of their sister to guide Undead, maintaining the facade of Anor Londo’s brilliance and giant inhabitants, protecting their sibling, and guiding their Blades of the Darkmoon to punish evildoers...and anyone who discovers the secret of the city. In spite of this, they still find time to indulge with some rings. Cock rings, to be specific!
Relationships: Dark Sun Gwyndolin/Original Character(s)
Series: Gifts and Requests [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1822471
Kudos: 21





	Darkmoon Waning

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in October 2019 as part of my [Short Stories.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19715794?view_full_work=true)

Dark Sun Gwyndolin did not “get bored”.

The apathy that he felt settling over him as time went on, his focus split between his illusions, protecting Yorshka, and his direct guidance of his servants, was nothing so crass as “boredom.” As the inheritor of Lord Gwyn’s task, Gwyndolin would not let anything sway his focus.

Which was why, when he lifted up his dress to fasten a tight ring around his little gray cock, he knew he was doing the right thing. He wasn’t “distracting himself”. He was “removing obstacles to his focus.” 

At least, that was what he told himself.

The snakes that coiled and slithered along the floor in lieu of legs did so soundlessly. When he first moved to expose himself, they’d given him privacy, turning away and flicking their tongues amongst themselves, as if the rest of their body _wasn’t_ currently pulling his dress forward to expose his panties, a little bulge outlined in the white fabric.

The question of why Gwyndolin might need to wear women’s undergarments never truly crossed his mind. He simply...did. Perhaps the ring he’d had fastened around his cock for so long, reversing his growth from masculinity into femininity on the orders of his father, had warped his perception of what should and shouldn’t be worn by a son. More likely, though, was the truth that gender dress norms were inherently worthless, and he should feel no shame in how he more closely resembled a daughter...if such a dichotomy was even meaningful in a world with coffins that altered the bodies of Undead willy-nilly.

Whatever the case, the ring that Gwynolin was affixing to his cock was not his Reversal Ring as usual, though he no longer needed it except in more...extreme cases. It was the White Ring, a gift to his father from Quella, god of dreams, that gave its bearer the appearance of one lost in time, of one passing between worlds. Shrouded in a luminescent ivory glow, Gwyndolin could be beckoned into the worlds of those in need even without crudely employing a soapstone...though some had a strange definition of “need.”

Which was exactly what Gwyndolin was counting on.

The first time, when he’d tried the ring on in a fit of curiosity, he’d found himself in a dark, overgrown wood, the path choked with vines and vegetation. When he looked at his legs, he saw not snakes, but feet, as the rest of his family bore. He was otherwise still unmistakably Gwyndolin, crowned with the Dark Sun.

“Thou has’t summon’d me, brave Undead, and thus I shall—” His greeting had been cut off by a rough hand smacking his face side to side, and he’d been too shocked to react, to pull out his bow or summon magic in his fingertips. The figure before him was a rough-looking man, scraggly-bearded and scarred and armored on their upper half, but utterly exposed below with a swinging, partially erect member.

Gwyndolin had been shoved to his hands and knees, had his phantom robe torn off his rear, and felt his summoner’s dick shove between their buttocks before he could so much as gasp in surprise.

“ _Finally_. All these louts, and not a single lass...eh, but you’re not, either. Still, you’re pretty enough for a lad. You’ll do.” The speaker spoke as if Gwyndolin didn’t have a choice, which he didn’t: his departure from this world was contingent on his summoner dismissing him or accomplishing the task that bound them. And for Gwyndolin, that meant burying his face in the grass, trying to let the light shining off him blot out the sight of the man behind him, and taking a cock in his ass until they were satisfied.

It hadn’t taken long—for all their bluster, the man had been a quick shot—before a creamy load, nearly as pale as Gwyndolin’s own honored moon, filled his rear with all the sticky white warmth that he might have expected from such an act. His discomfort meant that he had left the situation...quite unsatisfied, his little cock half-erect in his panties while his summoner wiped their cock on Gwyndolin’s butt and sent him off without so much as a word of farewell. 

As humiliating as that first experience had been...Gwyndolin had come back, again and again. Yorshka never knew, and he was careful to shield her from whatever he could. If his Darkmoon Blades or their cousins, the Blue Sentinels, knew about this, it’d ruin him in their eyes, even if many harbored the same thoughts, and that uppity sorcerer Sulyvahn would find fresh material to delegitimize the last god of Anor Londo. Gwyndolin shouldn’t have risked it, but he couldn’t stop.

Each time he wrapped that White Ring around his cock, covered his crotch with his panties, and closed his dress, he’d been summoned into a world. And each time, he’d been summoned explicitly to be used.

Sometimes, it was a single individual, a man or a woman or someone in between with a cock that emptied their balls into his delicate little butt, or into his throat while they grabbed his crown for leverage or onto his face or body while they jerked their dicks as he panted in anticipation. Sometimes it was two or more such individuals, sharing him between them like he was property: a dick in his ass, one in his mouth, and one in his hand. 

Gwyndolin’s favorite had been a particularly wild occasion, when he’d entered a world with one master, another other phantom...and two trespassers. The intruders, evidently, had quickly given up on the chase when promised the chance to enjoy Gwyndolin who was, under whatever pseudonym he was being summoned as, apparently acquiring quite the reputation. He’d left _that_ occasion completely coated and stuffed with cum, a drooling, spasming mess on the ground, his little cocklet spewing into his panties while his tiny balls ached and twitched and his partners jacked off their last loads onto his prone form, insulting and goading him all the while.

“Take it all, boyslut.”

“You’re a good little catamite, aren’t you?”

"A proper whore, looks like. But we don't even have to pay you. You’re doing this for free."

“Never could have guessed that I’d go for a guy, but you barely count…”

He always shuddered and came again when they got _really_ nasty, which prompted a fresh round of abuse...and a new wave of ejaculation from the twitching, jerking dicks all around him.

“Wow, you’re cumming from _this_?"

"Pathetic. You deserve every bit of this."

"You really _are_ just a dick-addled cock wench, aren’t you?”

“I suppose we should go again, then…”

It was a vicious and delicious cycle. 

And that was when he just had the appearance of an extremely effeminate man. When he donned the Reversal Ring on his cock, atop and around and alongside the White Ring, his body underwent an even greater change. He’d hear tales of the mystical sarcophagi of Drangleic that could induce a similar state, where his miniscule cock faded into a tight little pussy and the swell of his chest grew into a true bust. 

Some part of Gwyndolin _loved_ it, being turned into a woman. He already lived out that fantasy enough through his illusions of Gwynevere—which prompted a wide range of questions and inspirations for _other_ ideas—that taking on the physical form of the gender he’d been made to present as wasn’t much of a stretch. And the end result was the same: he’d get pulled into a world, stuffed full of dick, and passed around like property until his time was up and he’d be left to return a twitching, cum-coated mess. They’d shove their dicks into his cunt and between his tits, fucking his thighs and rolling their cocks on his stomach or anywhere they could. 

The only real difference was that he had one more hole, one fewer little hanging dick, and a fuller, curvier chest. His body was already built for bottoming, after all. 

Orgasming with a pussy was a thrill all its own, a rollicking, mind-shattering spasm of heat and fluid that left him as bow-legged as the times that he enjoyed a prostate-induced climax. Sometimes, even being facefucked was enough to get him to cream his panties, regardless of if it was his cock or his cunt getting the fabric damp.

But as Gwyndolin considered whether or not to become wholly a woman or to stay as a waifish boyslut, he recognized that he shouldn’t have been surprised at how much he enjoyed being anonymously used as a cock-holster, as a dickslave and fucksleeve, whether as a maiden or a man or whatever space he occupied between the two. 

Boys made the best girls, after all.


End file.
